


Revenant

by beeftony



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-07-10 04:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15941495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeftony/pseuds/beeftony
Summary: Ciri returns to the Skellige Isles to catch up with old friends and stay out of Nilfgaard's reach. But she's not the only one who's come back.





	1. Omen

Winter had come to Ard Skellig, and that meant one thing: ice skating. The youth of the various Skellige clans were expected to master water in solid form as well as liquid, and flitted about on their little skates practically from the time they could walk.

“Ow! Freya’s ploughin’ tits, that hurt!”

Some were better at it than others.

“Mind yer tongue Hjalmar, or I’ll cut it out and serve it to ye for dinner!”

“And stop skatin’ like a baboon.” Cerys an Craite, standing over her brother, extended her hand to help him up. He swatted it aside, and slipped a couple more times before standing on his own.

“What’s a baboon?” he asked. “And where’d you hear about it?”

“From me!”

A young, ashen haired girl with vibrant green eyes and an enchanting smile skated by them, then doubled back and halted herself right next to them. “We’ve been learning all about animals from Uncle Ermion. Baboons are native to Zerrikania, and they live in little tribes just like people. They have fur everywhere but their arse, and their arses are red just like yours right now!”

Hjalmar tried to lunge at her, but fell hard as she skated casually out of the way, almost splitting his chin. “Ow!”

Unable to control herself, Cerys started laughing. “Good one, Ciri!”

Ciri flashed her a smile, then started skating circles around them. She sighed and helped Hjalmar to his feet once more. “You alright, ya big oaf?”

“Ah, nothin’ to worry about,” he said, his eyes tracking Ciri as she moved further off, skating like she was born for it. “I’m gonna marry her someday, you know.”

“That right? You marryin’ a princess, that’ll be the day!”

He crossed his arms. “Fine, don’t believe me. But a girl that perfect… well, why bother chasin’ any others?”

“Because you’ll never catch up with her, dimwit!”

“Wanna bet? I’ll race you for it!”

“I’m not as fast as her either, but if ye wanna lose that bad…”

“To the far end of the lake!” he declared, pointing out a spot some hundred meters away. “On your mark, get set, go!”

He started about a half second before she got the chance to react. Cerys dug in hard with her skates, propelling herself forward like an arrow from a bow. Hjalmar was taller and stronger than Cerys, but he was also clumsier. As Ciri proved, skating wasn’t about power, but grace.

The truth was, neither of them were close to her skill level. The strange, energetic little girl from Cintra had come into their lives years earlier, though precisely how early Cerys could not remember. She and Hjalmar were the same age, with Cerys trailing behind. She could best Hjalmar in feats of physical skill, and she excelled in her studies, where Cerys was used to being in first. Despite their pride, neither of them resented her for it. Her talent inspired only admiration.

Shaking her head to clear it of distractions, Cerys began to gain on her brother, who was wobbling from the speed. Somehow he remained upright, and by now they were halfway to the finish line.

Leaning to the left, she snaked around another group of children, losing a bit of ground to Hjalmar, who stampeded directly through a small cluster and relied on them to get out of the way. She gritted her teeth and pushed forward, her resolve tempered by her need to be careful.

She spotted a sizeable crack in front of her and hopped deftly over it, landing firmly on the ice again. Hjalmar was looking even more shaky now. They were almost to the finish line.

“You’ll never catch me!” Hjalmar sang as he glided forward, and Cerys threw caution to the wind as she lunged forward, focusing only on the finish line. Her heart thundered in her ears, and she could taste copper in her gums. None of it mattered. She had to win. She had to.

In her single-minded zeal, Cerys failed to notice another crack in the ice. The tip of her right skate got trapped, and she tumbled forward, scraping her chin along the ice for a good few meters, along with her knee.

“Haha, yes! I win!” Hjalmar closed his eyes and did a brief victory dance, then noticed what happened. “Cerys!”

Cerys clutched her leg, where her right knee had been scraped raw by the sharp, stinging ice. Touching it felt like being raked across hot coals, and the cold made the pain that much more intense. Her chin was in a similar state. But she didn’t cry. It wouldn’t do for her to cry. She would lose with dignity, like a lady.

“By the goddess!” a priestess of Freya shuffled up to her and began inspecting the wounds, dragging her off the ice. Her father appeared a minute or so later, making his way towards them by snow rather than by ice.

“You won,” she said. “Guess you’ll marry her after all.”

“Yeah!” Hjalmar pumped his fist in the air. “You okay?”

“Nothing that won’t heal.”

“Cerys! My daughter! You’re hurt!” Crach an Craite stood over her while the priestess applied bandages and salves. He looked genuinely worried, in a way that clashed with the image of a fearless Jarl. But when it came to his daughter, appearances ceased to matter.

She nodded. “Yes Da, but it’s me own bleedin’ fault. Hjalmar and I were racin’.”

“Well it’s the last time you’ll be doin’ that fer a while,” he decreed. “Not until you learn to look where you’re ploughin’ going.”

“Okay, Da.”

Crach turned to the priestess. “Will she be okay?”

“It’s naught but a couple of scrapes. In a couple of weeks it won’t even look like she fell. I’m nearly finished here.”

“Then I’ll stay and wait.”

Cerys shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’m just as tough as Hjalmar, you’ll see.”

Smiling, he patted her red hair affectionately. “I don’t doubt it. But I’d be just as worried if he took that fall.”

It took another fifteen minutes or so, but eventually her wounds were bandaged, her skates were removed, and she stood by a tree watching the rest of the children zip around on the ice. Crach had taken Hjalmar aside to give him a good tongue lashing over putting his sister in danger, which meant she was alone.

“Are you done skating?”

She jumped. Somehow, in the crunchy snow, on skates, Ciri had moved up next to her completely unnoticed. Maybe she did need to learn to pay attention.

“Aye,” she answered. “But only because me Da says I can’t.”

“You should listen to him. He’s wise.”

Cerys smiled. “I know.”

“Why were you racing?”

“Hjalmar said he plans on chasing you until you marry him.”

Scrunching up her face, Ciri’s whole body shook and she stuck out her tongue. “Ew. He’d never catch me.”

“That’s what I told him. Then he wanted to race me to prove me wrong. But we’re both slower than you. Always have been.”

“Do you want to know the secret?”

Cerys tilted her head to the side. “What?”

“It’s not really skating,” she said. “It’s more like flying. You have to forget the skates are there and just… fly.”

“Fly? Like a bird? That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not! Your brother already calls you Sparrowhawk!”

“My brother also eats worms.”

“What’s wrong with worms? They’re tasty!”

“Because you’re a bird, is that why? What kind of bird would you be?”

Ciri shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’d be something majestic.”

“You sure would.” Cerys frowned. “You should get back to skating. Don’t need me slowing you down.”

“Don’t say that.” The ashen haired girl smiled at her in a way that made Cerys blush. “If I’m to marry someone, I’d much rather it be you.”

Before she could offer anything in reply, Ciri kissed her on the cheek, then hopped back on the ice and skated away.

* * *

Cerys awoke in her room, and the remains of the dream began to dissolve into nothing, until she was only left with fragments. Everything about it seemed real, even the pain, but the minute inaccuracies became clearer now that she was awake.

For one thing, it was Hjalmar who had taken a tumble that day, not her. Their father had thoroughly disabused him of the notion of marrying Ciri, and as far as Cerys remembered, the little ashen haired princess had never kissed her. Even so, her cheek felt warm, but that was probably just from the fire that burned in the hearth a short distance to her left.

She stood up and exited the bed, completely bare. Fancy nightgowns and other sleepwear were for continentals, not the Queen of the Skellige Isles. She dressed herself in light armor and furs, retrieving her crown and her knife, then opened her door to face the day.

Cerys had been having that dream for the last week, and each time felt like the first. She had consulted with the priestesses, and with Ermion, and both told her that while dreams could serve as omens, sometimes they merely reflected what was on a person’s mind. That didn’t make sense, because she hadn’t thought of Ciri since the battle against the Wild Hunt, and that happened months ago.

But, as Ermion pointed out, dreams were a window into the subconscious mind. Into hidden thoughts and feelings that manifested on their own. Even still, the old druid was at a loss to explain what it meant. As was she.

She walked into the main hall and joined the guards for breakfast. She had always believed in doing everything alongside the rest of her clan, rather than artificially elevating herself above them. If she had respect, the rest would naturally view her as the leader, regardless of title. Besides, eating alone was boring.

“Good mornin’ Sis,” Hjalmar said while chewing half a sausage. “You sleep well?”

Fortunately, her brother was of the same mind. He’d already consumed a substantial portion of the feast, and she set to claiming as much of it as she could before it was all devoured. Folan and Vigi the Loon sat on either side of him, with Cerys seated across from the three of them.

“You could say that.” She started shoveling eggs into her mouth, biting off a piece of seal jerky and washing it down with some mead. “You huntin’ again today?”

“Aye. Set me sights on a bear that’s been troublin’ Rogne. Folk say it came outta nowhere, massacred some villagers and disappeared into the forest. When they put together a huntin’ party to find the bugger, the tracks led nowhere.”

“And you reckon you’ll find it?” She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Village folk’d be better served hirin’ a witcher.”

Hjalmar rested his forearm on the table and leaned forward, staring at her with a challenge in his eyes. “Why’s that?”

“Because that ain’t a bear.”

“Whataya mean it’s not a bear?”

“Have ye forgotten what attacked the banquet when Birna Bran tried to assassinate all of us? Normal bears only wander into villages looking for food, not to kill. The reason the tracks disappeared is because it turned back into a man.”

“Ye got no proof of that.”

“Well it’s more’n you’ve got. How much thinkin’ did you do before settin’ off after the Lord of Undvik?”

“That’s rich comin’ from a woman who needed a witcher’s help to lift a ploughin’ curse! I coulda taken on that giant all by meself if I had to!”

“That so?” asked Folan. “I’d have been boiled alive and eaten by trolls were it not for Witcher Geralt, and it were his idea to let Vigi out of that cage. If he hadn’t come, you’d have been fighting that giant alone.”

“Aye!” Vigi agreed, slamming his tankard against the wood. “Halfway through the fight the giant ripped the cage apart. I would’ve been crushed!”

“Oh, but didn’t you hear him?” Cerys locked eyes with her brother and smirked. “He could have taken that giant all by his lonesome. Might as well have set out for Undvik alone, saved all those men from dyin’ for the sake of his pride!”

Hjalmar turned nearly as red as his hair. “You wanna talk about pride? When Geralt found you in Udalryk’s old family home,  you were near dead because you got in over your head and didn’t have anybody to back you up! You’d have died if he hadn’t shown up!”

“Seems to me we’ve got that in common. But at least I didn’t endanger anybody other than him and myself!”

“And at least I went out to face the Wild Hunt when they came here!”

“Yes! You and Da both! Leavin’ _me_ to do the planning as always! I was issuin’ orders the whole time, makin’ sure you all didn’t get slaughtered in a ploughin’ meat grinder! That’s just as important as being able to smash someone in the face with an axe!”

She stood up, shifting the table, and he did the same. They glared at each other for nearly a minute, until finally she sighed and shook her head.

“Well go on then. Keep chasin’ glory and maybe someday it’ll find you. Some of us have work to do.”

With that, she left the table and headed to her study. Hjalmar kept standing there for a minute before storming off as well, in the opposite direction. “Let’s go, men! Got us a bear to hunt!”

The rest of the men, who had watched this entire display in silence, nodded and followed after him. Watching them from across the large hall, Cerys sighed and whispered something she knew he wouldn’t hear.

“Be careful, ya big ape.”

* * *

A few hours, later, as she dipped a quill back into the inkwell to sign her name on another missive, one of her guards entered the room. The chamber had served as the private study for the Jarls of Clan an Craite for generations, and now it belonged to her. The desk rested directly across from the door, and the hearth was built into a wall that ran parallel to the hallway on the other side, leading out from the main hall. She motioned for the shieldmaiden to enter.

“Beg pardon, my Queen, but there’s a guest asking to see you.”

“Oh aye? Who?”

“The shieldmaiden opened her mouth to answer, but a second individual stepped into the doorway.

“I think I can introduce myself, thank you.”

Cerys could not hide her reaction. She did not pretend to understand various omens, prophecies, or other readings of fate, but she did believe that certain things were meant to be, and could be predicted. The proof of that lay in the fact that Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon now stood before her.

She smiled. “Thank you, Renna. Leave us, please.”

Nodding, the shieldmaiden moved out into the hallway, shutting the door behind Ciri. As soon as the door closed, Cerys abandoned all pretenses of decorum and surged across the room, enveloping Ciri in a big bear hug. The other woman did not resist as she picked her up, spun her around, and deposited her back on her feet.

“Ciri! It’s been too long! What brings you here?”

“It’s nice to see you too,” the ashen haired young woman replied. “It’s not a terribly long story, but I feel like we should have it over a drink.”

“I agree with ye there,” she said, heading back over to her desk while Ciri followed. “What’re you in the mood for? Mead or spirit?”

“Nothing too strong.” She glanced at the desk, which was practically covered in parchments that Cerys had spent the better part of the day looking over. “You’ve got to keep your head about you.”

“Eh, I’m mostly done for today anyway.” She started pouring the mead into two small mugs. “Now that the war’s over my responsibilities are basically that of a Jarl, and you’d be surprised how little paperwork is involved. The only times I’m really busy are when important decisions have to be made.”

“What about repopulating Undvik? Or dealing with Clan Drummond’s reprisal for Madman Lugos’ death?”

“I see Geralt’s been keeping ye apprised of stuff he dumped in my lap.” She leaned against the wall and took a sip of her drink, while Ciri sat on the desk and did the same. “But we dealt with that months ago. Hjalmar made himself useful and helped get people back to Undvik, no small task on account of how bloody Ragh Nar Roog happened there. And without Lugos to lead ‘em, Clan Drummond folded like a tent in a hurricane after naught but a few skirmishes.”

“That first one was my fault, actually,” the young woman admitted. “So you reached a peace accord with Nilfgaard?”

“More of an armistice. The Emperor withdrew the invasion out of recognition for us helping you fight the Wild Hunt, and he’s focused on the mainland for now. We don’t raid ships directly from their fleet and they don’t attack us back. Merchants carryin’ their goods, on the other hand? Those’re fair game.”

“And the other Jarls are okay with this?”

“Well, between that and Clan Drummond scamperin’ back with their tails twixt their legs, I’ve got enough respect that they won’t rebel. ‘Sides, was me that got justice for their firstborns dyin’. Well, and Geralt.”

Ciri smiled. “I heard. You really do deserve to be Queen.”

“High praise comin’ from the daughter of an Emperor.”

“Please don’t remind me.” She held her hand up and waved it as if pushing something away from her face. “That’s actually why I’m here. There’s practically nowhere on the continent that I’m safe from being discovered by someone who could report back to him that I’m still alive, now that he’s taken Novigrad. I was wondering if I could stay on your island for a while.”

Cerys laughed. “You know you’re always welcome here. Practically grew up side by side, we did. Far as I’m concerned you’re one of us.”

“That’s good to hear. I have coin to rent a room near the port, so I’ll just—”

“Oh, no. You’re stayin’ here in Kaer Trolde, I insist.”

Ciri stood, putting her hands in front of her. “I really wouldn’t want to impose…”

“And ye won’t be. Don’t forget we put you up along with the rest of yer family when you were still a lass. Besides, I’ve got so many rooms in this place I don’t know what to do with ‘em all.”

Smiling and shaking her head, she submitted to the hospitality. “Well at least you’ll be close by. We’ve a lot to catch up on. I barely spoke to anybody last time I was in Skellige.”

“Ye had a lot to deal with. Does it feel nice, knowing there’s no one chasing after you?”

“There’s always someone chasing me,” she said, finishing off her drink. “But I needn’t run quite so quickly anymore.”

“Don’t fret, you’ll be safe here. And I agree, we’re due for a conversation. Another drink?”

She nodded. “Yes please.”

* * *

“So you’re telling me,” said Cerys as she poured the last of the bottle, “that you’d been promised control of all Nilfgaard, and you chose to live as a witcher on the Path instead? You could have made a real difference, instead of letting men continue to ruin the world.”

Smiling, Ciri accepted the cup and knocked another back. “Far be it from me to suggest the world doesn’t need more female rulers. You’ve been doing a marvelous job of it. But it’s not for me. I like being on the road, meeting new people and having adventures. I’m not cut out for ruling anybody, and I never have been. I don’t remember much of what my father was like when we lived here all those years ago, but he seemed… calmer then. More at peace. Becoming Emperor changed him, and not for the better.”

“You make a fair point.” She stood up, grabbing a poker and stoking the fire on the other side of the room before throwing another log on top. “But I remember him being restless. Like there was something about this place that just didn’t satisfy him. Power doesn’t corrupt, not necessarily. It just attracts the corruptible.”

“What does that make you, then?”

She turned around to see Ciri wearing a good-natured smirk on her face. “Someone who wants what’s best for the Isles. Though I’ll not lie to you; it’s gotten a lot harder to shrug off insults now that I can do more than just cross fists with someone.”

“My grandmother struggled with the same thing.” She chuckled. “When I first met Geralt I threatened to have him beheaded for talking back to me.”

“Ha!”

“I don’t regret the choice I made,” she continued. “If I’d gone the other way we might have found ourselves on opposite ends of a battlefield.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Cerys strolled back over to the other side of the room, running her fingers along an empty tub that was pressed against the wall, near the fire. “My current focus is on improving life in the Isles, not sending more to their deaths against the Black Ones. With you in charge we might have even achieved an alliance.”

Ciri laughed long and hard. “I forgot how optimistic you could be. It’s nice.”

“Oh really?” She planted her hands on her hips and stared her down.

“Let’s just say I’ve lived a life of constant disappointment. But I’m finally happy with where I’m at.”

“You’d make a better ruler than you think,” she said, arriving back at the desk. “When Geralt found you and took you to Kaer Morhen, your friends joined forces to protect you. You reunited the Lodge of Sorceresses, most of whom hate each other like cats and dogs. You even got two opposing armies to unite against a common enemy, all for your sake. I can’t think of anyone else who could make all that possible.”

“I wasn’t in control of any of that,” Ciri rebutted. “Everybody made plans without considering what I wanted to do, all supposedly for my protection. How could I ever rule anything if nobody listens to me?”

Cerys shook her head and laughed. “Do you have any idea how many times a day my advisors second guess my decisions? When the Black Ones came, my Da took over the battle planning, all for my protection, of course. Being a leader means knowing when to make your own decisions and when to trust those who have more experience.”

“Heh. I was never any good at that.”

“Then it seems you made the right choice after all.”

“Time will tell.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” She produced another bottle and began to pour. “Want some food?”

Ciri nodded. “Don’t have to ask me twice.”

* * *

“By the way,” Ciri said two hens and a tankard of mead later, “what did you do with the remains of the Wild Hunt? I’m afraid the time right after the battle is a blur for me.”

“Your friend the Sage saw to that,” she revealed. “Took the _Naglfar_ back to Mörhogg or wherever it is they came from.”

“Tir Ná Lia,” she said. “It’s the capital city of their world. I spent some time there years ago.”

“Oh really? How was it?”

“Terrible. I’d say it was the most awful experience of my life if it hadn’t been my escape from an even worse one.” A wistful expression overtook her face. “It was beautiful, though.”

“What made it so horrible?”

“The Aen Elle elves are nothing like the Aen Seidhe, though they were once the same people. The only humans there were slaves taken by the Wild Hunt, and when I escaped I learned that the elves had taken that world by slaughtering all of its previous inhabitants. All except the unicorns.”

“Unicorns? Like the ones that approach virgins?”

“Indeed. I met one in the Korath desert, and he later helped me escape Tir Ná Lia.” She chuckled. “You know something funny? They called Eredin ‘Sparrowhawk’ when they warned me about him. A coincidence, I’m sure.”

“Was there a reason they called him that?”

“All I know is that the Aen Elle had been at war with the unicorns since they invaded that world. Eredin tended to make… an impression on people. The one time I beat him in a swordfight was pure luck. There were no bridges for him to smack into all the other times.”

“You mentioned they took slaves,” said Cerys. “Is that what you were there?”

“More like a prisoner. The slaves all did menial labor, but they had something else in mind for me. If I had to put an exact name to it, I’d say I was a concubine.”

She said it with disgust, which did not go unnoticed by Cerys. She frowned. “Who put you up to it? And why?”

Ciri took a swig of her drink. “Avallac’h. I’d gotten to their world by passing through Tor Zirael, the Tower of Swallows. His was the first face I saw. And it wasn’t a friendly one. As to why…” She shifted in her chair, facing Cerys properly. “ You know I’m descended from Lara Dorren, right?”

“Of course. I learned all about human and elven history growing up, and me Da filled in a few of the gaps.”

“Avallac’h was set to marry her centuries ago, before she left him for a human. The Aen Elle saw that as unforgiveable and demanded I bear them a child to repay the debt. I’m sure you can guess how I reacted.”

Cerys nodded. “I would’ve reacted by buryin’ an axe in his face.”

“All I did was run. But no matter how far I got, some enchantment kept drawing me back towards the same spot. Eventually he wore me down and I agreed to do as he asked. I was to bear the child of their king, Auberon Muircetach. The other elves put glamour on my face to minimize my scar and mixed magical aphrodisiacs into my perfume. But Auberon could hardly even touch me, much less fuck me.”

“You sound almost disappointed.”

She looked up and glared at Cerys, but soon relented. “To this day I’m not sure how I feel. Obviously I didn’t want to bear the child of an elf I’d never met who was thousands of years older than me, but he made  me feel as if _no one_ would ever want me. He said looking at me was like finding a pearl in a pile of shit. Part of me wanted him to do it just out of spite, knowing it would bring him as much misery as it brought me.”

Standing, Cerys walked around the desk and refilled Ciri’s tankard. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“In the end nothing came of it. Eredin gave the king a concoction that would allow him to finally get on with it, but it ended up poisoning him. That’s when I fled. He chased after me ever since.”

She hugged Ciri from behind. “Well, that’s over now. You’re free. But if you’re bringing this up because you worry there might be strings attached…”

“I promise it has no bearing on why I’m hesitant to stay here. It’s just that every time I start to feel mildly comfortable with my circumstances, the rug gets ripped out from underneath me and I find myself on the run again, with those I love either dead or too far away to reach.”

Cerys laughed and released her, returning to the other side of the desk. “I promise you’ll be safe here.”

“How can you? Do you really think Eredin was the only one interested in me? There are things out there that nobody can protect me from.”

“I don’t need to. You’re a grown woman now, and you can look after yourself. But you’re the one who came and asked to stay on my island, and that means you’re under my protection whether you want to be or not.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

She smiled. “At the very least, I promise your time here won’t be boring.”

Ciri raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to have the next Smoke and Mirrors update ready by next week, but in the meantime here's a project I've had on the back burner for the last few months. Skellige doesn't feature heavily into my other story, so I wanted to write one where it was the focus. Also Ciri/Cerys is a great ship and I wish they'd gotten the opportunity to interact in the game.
> 
> I've taken some liberties with the backstory here. Given that Cerys was invented specifically for the third game, she wasn't integrated all that congruently into Ciri's history in Skellige. Though it's possible they just didn't have time for that.
> 
> My new update policy is that if I have something ready on Sunday, I'll post it on Sunday. If it's ready at any other point of the week, I'll wait until the next Sunday and post it then. Hopefully this works better than updating in set intervals, which caused me enough stress that I had to take a break from writing for the last three months.
> 
> Please let me know what you think.


	2. Feast

The enormous double doors leading into the grand hall of Kaer Trolde were solid oak, ancient and sturdy, capable of repelling invaders and shutting out the cold in equal measure. When locked, they could withstand a full scale assault, up to and including a battering ram, at least long enough for the castle’s defenders to regroup and form a proper defense.

No such thing was necessary as, with a mighty kick, Hjalmar entered the hall with his arms raised triumphantly above his head, drawing looks from the handful of guards and servants. Behind him, his men paraded an enormous bear, its blood dribbling onto the stone in a long, crimson trail. Cerys cocked a hip and crossed her arms, impressed by the sight. Next to her, Ciri adopted a similar pose.

“Your heroes have returned!” he bellowed, not yet having taken notice of the new arrival, too caught up in the glory. “It were a tough fight, but in the end we slew the man-eater!”

“Well done,” said Cerys, stepping closer. “Though I can’t help but notice you’ve nary a scratch on you.” She looked among the rest of the men, her shrewd eyes finding the occasional ripped tunic, but no blood save that of the bear. “Could it be things actually went accordin’ to plan for once?”

Throwing his head back, Hjalmar slapped a hand across his chest and laughed uproariously. “Always there to take the wind outta me sails, eh Sis? In the end t’were only a bear, like I told ye.”

“Well, Ah can admit when I’m wrong,” she said, shrugging. “I’m just glad yer alright.”

“So am I,” said Ciri, having snuck up on them somehow, as though she’d just appeared. “I’d hate to have our reunion soured by a hunting wound.”

Hjalmar did a double take, then lurched forward and lifted Ciri off her feet, twirling her around in a circle while she giggled. “Ciri! Perfect timing! There’s gonna be a feast tonight, and that thing is first on the menu!” He set her down, and the momentum carried her a few steps further before she staggered to a stop.

“Well it would be a waste to just skin it,” she admitted. “Might as well put the meat to good use.”

“That’s the spirit! What brings you to our fair isle?”

“Long story. Looking to get away from the Continent for a while. Her Majesty has offered to let me stay here in the castle for the time being.”

Squinting, Cerys planted her hands on her hips and leaned back. “Majesty? Don’t start puttin’ me on a pedestal now, ya hear? It’s not like I call you by yer full title every time I need ye to pass the salt.”

“I don’t see how you’d have the time.”

“Precisely. Queen Cerys will do if you feel the need to keep up appearances, but formality’s never suited any of us.”

Ciri chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She glanced around. “At any rate, I’ve kept you from your duties long enough. Why don’t I stay here and help with the preparations? It’ll give Hjalmar and I a chance to catch up.”

“Sounds like a fine idea,” she replied, smirking as she walked past her brother. “I’ll go check on the ale stores. Don’t want any repeats of what happened last time bears and banquets were so close together.”

With that, she walked off out of the hall, disappearing behind the double doors. Ciri glanced at Hjalmar.

“What does she mean by that?”

His face turned uncharacteristically grim for a moment before he hid it behind a smile. “Ah, just that business with the berserkers that happened the night the Jarls decided the new King. Or Queen, in this case.”

Ciri squinted. “I heard a little about that. Geralt didn’t go into too much detail, and I had other things on my mind at the time anyway. What happened, exactly?”

“Well,” he answered as he led her over to one of the tables, and they sat down across from each other.  “We was feastin’ and carousin’, waitin’ on the Jarls to make their decision on who’d be crowned. Then outta nowhere three enormous bears show up and start killin’ folk.”

“Who died?”

“Blueboy Lugos, Halbjorn Blackhand, and any claimant to the throne that wasn’t me, Cerys, or Svanrige Bran. Cerys and the Witcher did some investigatin’ and found out someone spiked the mead with mushrooms and human blood, and it turned three men into berserkers. Looked just like bears durin’ the fight.”

She glanced over to the bear corpse, which had been rested on another table for the time being, while Folan and another fellow were sharpening the knives needed to butcher it. Hjalmar caught her attention by waving a hand in her face.

“I know what yer thinkin’. That’s the first thing we checked. Berserkers keep their human tongues, and their tattoos carry over. You can see ‘em under the fur. That’s just an ordinary bear that got a taste for human blood and took a likin’ to it.”

“What made you think to check for it?”

He shrugged. “Cerys. We argued durin’ breakfast. She thought a bear showin’ up outta nowhere an’ killin’ folk didn’t sound like a bear at all. Figured it couldn’t hurt to see whether she was right.”

“I hate to say it, but I’m glad she wasn’t.”

“Aye, me too.” He looked over to the corpse. “Yer really sure you wanna help with this?”

“Oh come now.” She stood up and waved her hand towards him dismissively, letting her wrist fall. “I’m a witcher now, haven’t you heard? I’ve carved up far worse than a man-eating bear.”

* * *

If there was one thing Ciri could say about Skelligers, it was that they could put a feast together faster than anybody else. The great hall had been transformed in a matter of hours, and the space had been filled by dozens of members of the An Craite clan. Nothing too over-the-top of course, and there was plenty of bear meat to go around.

She suspected the whole thing might have been a smaller affair if the An Craite siblings hadn’t insisted on turning a simple bear hunt into an impromptu celebration of Ciri’s return to the island. As with most things in her life, the pieces just fell into place, born of serendipity or some much loftier design. She’d fulfilled too many prophecies to think anything happened to her by accident.

None of which weighed on her too heavily as she tore off a hearty chunk of meat, devouring it with great voracity. Though raised as a princess, she’d spent far more time around witchers, who didn’t bother with concepts like daintiness when eating. Neither did Cerys and Hjalmar, who tore into the meal just as hungrily. That was one of the reasons she loved this place.

“I must say, this is even livelier than I remember these things being,” she remarked. “Not that I saw much of them as a child, but still.”

“You can thank Cerys,” said Hjalmar, seated next to her. “She really has been improvin’ the quality of life ‘round here. Folk’re happier now that they ain’t watchin’ for black sails over the horizon.”

“And here I thought your people loved fighting Nilfgaard.”

He finished off his tankard, then one of the servants poured him another. “We like buttin’ heads with ‘em, aye. Raidin’ makes us feel alive. But it’s the waitin’ that gets to ye. Havin’ to stay vigilant, lest they creep up in the middle of the night an’ start killin’ folk ‘fore they have a chance to fight back. Makes ye downright paranoid.”

“I know what you mean,” she replied. “When I was on the run from the Wild Hunt I was always counting the seconds in the back of my mind, knowing that eventually I’d push my luck too far and have to flee.” She squinted, staring out one of the windows. “Do you ever feel relieved when something goes wrong, just because you knew it would? Because it means you weren’t imagining it?”

“Aye.” He nodded. “Truth be told, I was expecting that hunt to go far worse.”

“Have you had trouble with man-eating bears before?”

First one in my lifetime. But there’re songs and legends about it. Most of ‘em having to do with berserkers. Like I said though, this were just an ordinary bear. Big one, though.”

Ciri tilted her head to the side as a thought occurred to her. “And you’re sure you killed the right one? Cerys had a point earlier: none of you were seriously injured. I’ve no doubt you can handle yourself, but one of your men should at least have a few scratches on them somewhere.”

“Are ye sayin’ we didn’t put up a fight?”

“No, I’m merely pointing out that the bear didn’t. That doesn’t fit with what happened in that village.”

His countenance darkened, and he stared at his plate. “The folk massacred in the village weren’t armed. A couple of the guards drove it off, but the huntin’ party they sent out didn’t find anything after the trail ended. We picked up where they left off, and we finished it. End of story.”

“And you won’t even consider the possibility that you killed a different bear?”

“It’d be a first if he did,” said Cerys, sitting back down next to her. “But I’ll say this for him: Hjalmar’s a great tracker, an’ he had Folan with ‘im too. Besides, once a rumor starts, everybody loves to embellish. That’s what happens in a land that believes so fervently in heroes and legends.”

“Thanks, Sis.” Hjalmar knocked back half his tankard before continuing. “An’ I appreciate your concern, Ciri. But we searched the whole woods around where that trail ended, and that was the only bear we found.”

“I’m probably worrying over nothing,” she agreed, raising her tankard. “To good times.”

Hjalmar raised his as well. “I’ll drink to that.”

“As will I,” said Cerys.

They clinked their mugs together, then threw their heads back and drank.

* * *

An hour or so passed, and then it was time for dancing. Ciri had always liked Skelligan dancing, which did not adhere to the rigid, formal styles of high society dancing on the continent. It reminded her of the nights spent outside Novigrad in Valdo’s caravan, or when she and the Rats had taken over a tavern for the night. It was wild, energetic and free, and totally unrestrained.

She blew through dance partners like a wildfire, men and women alike, lingering just long enough to leave an impression before moving on to the next. A row broke out between two men who couldn’t agree on which of them should dance with her, so while they rumbled she led a nearby girl up onto a table, where they danced face to face as fists flew in the background. One man emerged victorious, so she and the girl pulled him up onto the table as well, and she danced between them for a bit before hopping back down to the ground to mingle some more.

At one point, Hjalmar tossed her in the air and she spun around before he caught her, then set her down. Her feet had barely touched the ground when Cerys grabbed her by the hand, lifting said hand over their heads and spinning Ciri about before drawing her in closer. She went with it, allowing the Queen to dip her so her head was halfway to the floor.

She caught the glare that Hjalmar sent his sister’s way, before it transmuted into a good-humored grin and raucous laughter. Cerys continued to support Ciri’s leaning form with hardly any effort, then pulled her back up and they resumed dancing. Even with the amount of mead she’d consumed, Ciri had spent enough time around the two of them to know how deep their competitive streak ran. Time to have some fun with that.

“I propose a challenge!” she exclaimed once the dancing began to slow, her words a bit slurred. “One that shall occur in three stages! The reward… is a kiss. From me to the winner.”

The energy of the room began to surge, and now she definitely had their attention.

“First… a drinking contest.” She held up a bottle of spirit while climbing atop one of the tables. “Whoever finishes one of these advances to the next round. But!” She raised a finger. “You must drink it while upside down, and use your feet to pour.”

Cheering and laughter erupted from the crowd, as they immediately warmed to the idea. She looked between Cerys and Hjalmar, who were already sizing each other up. A few others in the crowd seemed game for the idea as well. Drinking was so routine for Skelligers that they welcomed any sort of diversion.

“What’s the second part?” asked Folan.

“A blindfolded footrace,” she replied, flashing a mischievous smile. “Through the hallways of the castle. The first five to find their way back to this chamber advance to the final round.”

Hjalmar laughed. “That don’t sound too hard! I’ve got the layout of this castle memorized!”

“Did I mention you’ll have to do it by walking backwards, all while completely sloshed?”

Another round of cheering and laughter flew up, with Hjalmar’s laugh being the loudest of all.

Cerys stared at her with a smirk on her face, one hand resting on her hip. “And what’s the final challenge?”

“Well, it’s not a real Skelligan feast without a bit of bloodshed.” She ground a fist into her palm. “The last leg of this contest will be a fistfight, and the last man or woman standing shall be the victor, and worthy of the prize.”

Hjalmar glanced sideways, towards his sister. “Any catch?”

“Only a few ground rules. No weapons, no killing, and do try and draw a bit of blood. Just enough to make it entertaining.”

A third chorus of cheers and laughter went up, and Ciri grinned. This was going to be fun.

Within a few minutes, the room was divided between those who wished to participate, and the ones who preferred to watch. A table was cleared, and several of the servant girls stood atop it as the contestants lined up, each one holding a bottle. Cerys and Hjalmar had, as expected, jumped at the chance to compete, along with Folan, Vigi the Loon, a few assorted guards, and even a shieldmaiden or two. Ciri clutched a bottle and climbed onto the table alongside the rest of the women, as the contestants turned themselves upside-down.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” she asked, yanking the lid off the bottle and placing it between Cerys’ feet.

The Queen demonstrated remarkable control as she maneuvered her legs over her head, and the stream hit her mouth for the most part. Beside her, Hjalmar proved only slightly less graceful, with spirit spilling all across his chest and beard before he finally managed to catch it in his mouth.

The rest of them were a mixed bag. One man dropped the bottle, which crashed against his forehead before shattering against the stone. He rolled over, clutching his forehead and throwing off the aim of the man next to him, who kept his grip on the bottle but completely drenched one of the shieldmaidens as it spilled everywhere.

The second man cursed, and the two of them rose to their feet and commenced shoving each other, but did not come to blows. They joined the rest of the audience, and the others continued to drink.

A few moments later, one of the shieldmaidens began to gasp and writhe, the alcohol having travelled down the wrong pipe and towards her lungs. One of the servant girls helped her up, and the woman hacked and coughed before vomiting up the remains of the spirit. She was led over to the audience, and the remaining contestants soon finished the rest of the bottles.

Retrieving the bottle between Cerys’ feet, Ciri leaned down over the other woman and smiled.

“Time for round two!”

A cheer rose up, and they forced themselves upright. Even with their reputation as hardy drinkers, downing an entire bottle of Mahakaman Spirit was enough to get even a witcher completely sauced. The better one did in the first contest, the bigger their disadvantage would be in the second. Cerys and Hjalmar both staggered, but soon powered through it as the blindfolds were brought out.

“Now remember,” said Ciri, pointing towards the doors leading to Cerys’ office. “You’re to go down that hallway, through the cellars, back to the main gate, and in through those doors.” She pointed to the double doors on the opposite side. “Currently there are thirteen of you. The first five to make it back here will advance to the final round, where you will fight for the ultimate prize.”

“A kiss ain’t the ultimate prize,” said one of the men, who had been hammered even before the drinking contest. “That’s a little lower.”

“Show some respect!” Hjalmar bellowed, whirling around to glare at the man with unholy fury. “That woman is under the clan’s protection!”

“What? I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. But who knows what could happen after I win? Might take her into the cellars for a little…”

He didn’t get to finish, as Hjalmar’s fist crashed against his jaw like a battering ram. He hit the floor like a stone, and didn’t get back up, though he vomited a second later and confirmed that he was still alive. Two of the guards who had decided not to partake dragged him over to the rest of the tables and dumped him on the floor. Ciri watched the whole thing with a neutral expression.

“Very well. Now there are twelve of you. You’ll also need to do all of this while blindfolded and walking backwards. Any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“Then on your mark… get set… go!”

* * *

Roughly fifteen minutes later, they could hear footsteps and clamoring, and the double doors slammed open as Cerys and Hjalmar staggered in at exactly the same time. Hjalmar tumbled over, but landed in a somersault that brought him back to his feet. The race seemed to have sobered him a bit, while Cerys remained fleet-footed as ever. Folan was third, then one of the shieldmaidens, and finally the castle blacksmith. The rest of them found their way back within a few minutes, save one.

“What happened to Vigi the Loon?”

“Tripped comin’ down one of the stairwells,” Hjalmar answered. “Didn’t break his neck or nothin’, but he’s out cold.”

Cerys turned to two of the guards, motioning with her head. “Go and put him to bed. He oughtta be fine in the morning.”

The guards obeyed, exiting the hall. Ciri clapped her hands together. “Well done, everybody. Well done. Are you ready for the final test?”

“Born ready,” boasted Hjalmar, grinding a fist against his palm before raising his arms and pivoting around to face the other finalists. “Who wants a taste of the giant-slayer?”

“Oh, I’ve been waitin’ to put you down again,” said Cerys. “Last time we fought ye didn’t last thirty seconds before you tasted dirt.”

“Remember, this is a clean fight, or at least clean by Skelligan standards,” said Ciri. “Please put all weapons on that table over there. Teeth are allowed, but try not to actually kill each other. Those are the only rules. Now fight!”

Contrary to what one might expect, the An Craite siblings did not go for each other immediately, focused instead on thinning out the competition. Folan also avoided them for the first part of the bout, going after the blacksmith while Cerys went for the shieldmaiden, Brenna. Hjalmar looked between them, trying to decide which fight to join, before deciding that his sister could handle herself. He charged at the blacksmith, shoulder-checking him to the ground.

Meanwhile, Cerys was fighting defensively, dodging and weaving, only blocking when she had to. Brenna brought her arm down as if wielding a hammer, and Cerys crossed her arms in an “x” formation above her head, before sliding around her opponent and kicking the small of her knee with enough force to break her stance. The shieldmaiden recovered quickly, but by the time she turned around, Cerys’ fist was already an inch from her nose.

Folan was used to fighting from a distance, which posed a problem when confronted with Hjalmar. The big red-haired warrior swung with a wild haymaker, which the archer ducked under at the last possible second, retaliating with an uppercut. Hjalmar dipped back, and returned with a headbutt that sent Folan staggering. At this point the blacksmith rose from the ground, attempting to tackle Hjalmar, who stepped to the side and extended his foot, causing the other man to trip and slam into one of the pillars, and he fell back, unconscious.

This proved to be the opening Folan needed to leap into the air and strike Hjalmar’s jaw with his fist as he came down. Rolling with the punch, Hjalmar endured the follow-up volley, blocking the blows with his raised fists. Folan’s next punch swung too wide, leaving him open to a sucker punch to the stomach, which he delivered without hesitation. The archer doubled over, right into Hjalmar’s rising knee. Gripping the back of Folan’s tunic, he spun him around twice before hurling him in Cerys and Brenna’s direction.

The two women split apart as Folan barreled through their space, not sober enough to stop himself from tumbling to the ground, where he remained. Cerys took her eyes off the fight just long enough for Brenna to punch her in the chin, knocking her for a loop. She staggered back, and her opponent moved in for the kill.

Before she got the chance, Hjalmar appeared behind her, threading his arms underneath hers and holding her off the ground long enough for Cerys to recover. Once the room stabilized again, she painted a right cross against the shieldmaiden’s face, finishing with a hard kick to her midsection. She crumpled in Hjalmar’s arms, and he dropped her to the ground, where she collapsed like a stone, crawling off towards the audience.

A few moments passed where Cerys and Hjalmar stared each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move. Finally Hjalmar charged forward, trying to wrap her up in a bear hug. Cerys dipped around him, peppering a couple quick jabs against his ribcage just below his right armpit. That halted his momentum, and she leapt into the air, wrapping one arm around his throat from behind his back while he was off balance, before letting gravity do the rest.

They crashed against the stone, and Cerys was up first, followed swiftly by her brother. While she couldn’t match him in strength, she knew how to use his size against him. There was a reason they called her “Sparrowhawk.”

But even for his size, Hjalmar wasn’t slow, and Cerys had to take extra care not to let him catch her. He endured her jabs, angling his body so that they struck hard muscle instead of the nerves and bones she was aiming for. A straight punch broke through her guard, slamming into her upper chest and knocking the wind from her lungs. He spun around, holding a fist high above his head, ready to bring the full weight of it crashing down on top of her. She rolled to the side just in time, recovering her breath as best she could.

She kited around him, putting some distance between them while she regained her strength. Fights between the two of them tended to be extremely short or unbearably long, depending on who seized the advantage first. Hjalmar also appeared to be showing signs of fatigue, but let out a warrior’s cry that seemed to renew his strength. Cerys bellowed in a similar manner, and they closed the gap once more.

Cerys moved her attention to countering the blows, rather than simply avoiding them. Deflecting a haymaker, she jabbed his shoulder at the same time, and Hjalmar grunted in pain. Before he could launch another, she whirled around and elbowed his gut, before completing the rotation and uppercutting his chin. As he staggered back, she leapt into the air, both hands clasped above her head in a hammer-fist, which she slammed against his chest.

He dug his heels in and endured the hit, but she wasn’t done yet. He swung at her again, and she stepped to the side, grabbing his forearm as it passed and moving in a semicircle behind him. She looped her leg over his shoulder, then somersaulted forward, and the momentum brought him careening with her. He landed hard on his back, and she laid her leg across his throat while holding his arm down with the rest of her body.

“Yield!”

Tapping his free hand rapidly against the stone, Hjalmar conceded, and the crowd cheered as Cerys rose victorious. Swaggering over to where Ciri was still standing atop the table, she extended her hand, and the ashen-haired girl stepped down to join her.

“I believe I’ve won the prize.”

Ciri grinned. “Indeed you have. Now then…”

“Queen Cerys!”

All eyes shot over to the entrance of the main hall, where one of the guards had returned. Squinting her eyes in annoyance, she let go of Ciri and turned her attention to him. “What is it?”

“Queen Cerys!” the guard stumbled forward, almost out of breath. “You must come quickly. Vigi the Loon is dead.”

“What?!” Hjalmar and Folan bellowed as one. Cerys’ eyes widened, and she took a step back.

“How?”

“We’re not sure, Your Majesty. I understand if you’re busy with the celebration, but…”

“Oh, I think that’s done now.” She turned to the crowd. “All of yous! The party is over! Go back to yer homes if yer not stayin’ here.”

The crowd filtered out, but Ciri, Hjalmar, and Folan stayed behind, along with the guards and shieldmaidens.

“I can help with the investigation,” said Ciri. “Had some experience with this sort of thing.”

“As have we,” said Folan. “And Vigi was our friend.”

“Aye,” said Hjalmar. “We’re gonna find out who’s responsible for this and—”

Cerys threw her hands up. “Let’s just figure out what happened first, alright?” She turned to the guard. “Can you take us to the body?”

“Of course, Queen Cerys. Follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, yeah. This took way too long. I had the first scene written like a month ago, and the rest of it all came pouring out over the Thanksgiving weeked. I've been juggling a lot of things lately, and haven't had as much time to write. Still, hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Please comment if you can! I live for feedback.


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